A leg of the journey.

 Pow!

Between the bruises and busted blood vessels, my thick peasant legs are a veritable blue highways map to some kind of dense inelegant history.

In my head today I composed a little piece about being this weight and size, how that affects me. Affects those who love me. But ultimately, I am compelled to say just that I have been making it to the Y for the 6 AM classes of Zumba and Ultimate Circuit, and asking my body to do things that are very hard for it. Even today, after a dinner date at Pad Thai Kitchen while the boy was at the final night of Vacation Bible School, and a ridiculously embarrassing spill at the bottom of the steps in the parking garage.

"Why do you keep falling down in front of me?" asked the Mister, who'd also witnessed the basement steps tumble on the day of the flood. The tumble in which I bruised myself crazy shades of indigo on much of my body, and severely injured my coccyx, though somehow refrained from breaking a limb or concussing myself.

Just two weeks from the date of injury, in the sanctuary prior to our son's baptism, our utterly fantastic children's pastor lovingly asked, "So how's your butt?"

It hurt then, and still nearly six weeks out, it hurts. But it hurts less. And hurts more to be out of shape. Hence, my ample ass has returned to exercising after a break toward healing and stepped up the game.

And on this subject, at this particular time, that's what I got.

I show up. I go slow. Yet I go.